


How to Write Angry Letters with Love

by WanderingWren



Category: Sterek - Fandom, teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Anger, Bitterness, M/M, Mentions of Death, architect!Derek, coffee shop AU, derek has very few, hand holding, lots of letter, mention of house fire, mentions of absent parents, stiles has lots of words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29290422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingWren/pseuds/WanderingWren
Summary: Derek struggles with working on his job, and Stiles struggles to write these goddamn letters
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Kudos: 49





	How to Write Angry Letters with Love

Derek sat in the coffee shop, his fingers mindlessly drumming on the coffee cup that sat warmly in his hands. His eyes flipped back and forth from watching the steam rise off of the cup, and the blank page in front of him. 

His boss was going to kill him. That’s for sure. He needed to get in a full printed design to her in two weeks, and he hadn’t even started on the proposal idea. A loud sigh pushed past his lips as he threw his head back in frustration. He heard a slight chuckle from the man sitting two tables away. 

He narrowed his eyes, barely holding back a growl. But when his eyes landed on the man laughing at his pain, all that faded. What sat beneath a black and gray beanie, was the most gorgeous face his eyes had ever seen. A sleek jaw, deep brown eyes, and moles dotting his face like constellations. 

“I see you’re succeeding wonderfully.” The man drawled sarcastically in the most gorgeous voice ever. Derek narrowed his eyes again,

“Yeah, well I see you’re doing so much better than me.” In front of the most gorgeous face ever sat piles of crumpled up pages of lined notebook, torn unceremoniously from the notebook in front of him. The man flushed, eyes flickering down to the mess sprawled on the table and back to Derek’s own eyes. 

“Well ya know, practice makes perfect?” 

“Derek.” 

“What?” he asked, tilting his head in confusion.

“My name is Derek.”

“That makes much more sense! I thought it was some weird cough or something,” he teased. 

“Are you not going to tell me your name?” Derek said.

“Nope! I wouldn’t be a proper lady if I told you my name in the first conversation.” The untitled man snarked. “But, meet you same time tomorrow, and maybe you’ll get a hint.” And with that, the man gathered all the crumpled papers and stuffed them all into his bag, and skipped out of the coffeeshop.

Derek huffed in frustration, and wished he could find something to say to stop the man from leaving, but could only sit in defeat watching the most beautiful person leave his sight. Damn his inability to think of words to say.

\-----------

The next day, Derek could hardly get to the coffeeshop faster. Thankfully his boss didn’t mind him working out of the office, so being able to escape to the atmosphere of the coffeeshop was the best part. It wasn’t ever too busy where it distracted him from getting things done, but wasn’t too quiet where it was only his own thoughts he heard.

Derek pushed the door open, and surveyed the coffeeshop. His eyes landed on Untitled Man - what Derek had been calling him in his head the entire 24 hours - and the table was already a sea of crumpled up letters. Or what Derek presumed were letters. Lots of writing scrawled in the most beautiful yet sloppy handwriting, and what seemed to be a Dear ….. Someone on the top of the page.

Derek took a moment and steeled himself. For years, he had been “Mr Grumpy Face” or “Snarl Snarl man” or whatever snarky names his sisters had deemed for him. At least... Derek shook those thoughts from his head, and carried on with the previous train - so losing that perception because of Untitled Man before Derek even knew his name would be a little sad.

Derek set his jacket and bag down at the same table as last time and went to the counter. The barista behind the bar took one glance at him, recognized who it was and typed in the same order Derek has gotten since he started coming here, and got to work on getting it made. Derek silently handed over his card, put a 5 in the tip jar, grabbed the coffee and went back to the table. He got out his laptop, opened it up and stared now at the half filled page. Better than yesterday at least. 

He set his hands on the keyboard, typed one word and took a sip of coffee, slightly proud at the contribution to the page. 

“Wow, a congratulations sip for one word? You must really be struggling with that.” Derek looked up from the screen, and squinted at the man. 

“Can’t say you’re allowed any opinion.” With a dramatic look to the crumpled letters that lay in front of him. Untitled Man shrugged, and smirked. 

“Yeah well, at least I’m writing and deciding it’s not good, and not just not writing at all.” And in a moment, it felt like Derek understood that man sitting across the tables. Derek always thought and agonized over every single word he typed out before putting it on the page, but with the amount of letters Untitled Man had in front of him, it seemed as though he just word-vomited every thought onto the page. Derek shrugged at Untitled Man’s words, and took a long sip of coffee, his eyebrows raised in indignation. 

Untitled man raised his eyebrows, and took a sip of whatever was in his cup. A staring contest progressed for a few moments, before Untitled man set his cup down on the table and stood up and took a deep bow,

“Stiles Stilinski.” Derek wasn’t sure if he heard the words that came out of Untitled Man’s mouth quite right, but let his mind process the them before speaking,

“Stiles Stilinski. Not quite a mouthful but I think I like Untitled Man better.” The snarky comment escaped from Derek’s mouth before he could catch it and waited for Stiles’ response. First, it was an adorable head tilt. Second, a squint of the eyes. Third, a slight smirk. Fourth, the most beautiful laugh Derek has ever heard in his life. 

“Well played, Derek. Well played,” Stiles said between laughter, “Generally I just get, What the hell is a Stiles. Don’t think I’ve ever gotten Untitled Man before.”

\--------

The next two weeks passed in similar fashion. Derek would come in, laptop and writers block in tow, and sit two tables across from Stiles - formerly known as Untitled man - and drink his coffee. They would chat and banter, sometimes Stiles would help with word choices for Derek’s work, or comment on how little he was getting done. On days Derek would work on actual project designs, Stiles would lean back in his chair and watch in fascination at Derek’s quick and efficient movements on the screen that would eventually turn into a fully fledged design. Other days, Derek would watch Stiles mutter underneath his breath as his pen scribbled furiously on the page. Stiles would sometimes shake his head, curse something unintelligible under his breath and crumple it up. Some days the pile would only be one or two pages, other’s it would be a sea. 

“Why don’t you just write in pencil for a first draft?” Derek wondered aloud. He’d been thinking it for ages, but finally had too little of a filter to stop himself from asking it.

Stiles' head snapped up, “I don’t have the motivation,” he said. 

Derek narrowed his eyes, “What does pen have to do with motivation?” 

“When I write with a pen, it feels like the words flow a little more smoothly. With pencil, it’s almost as if the graphite just gets stuck on the page and I can’t write anything.”

“That’s an expensive habit.” Stiles snorted at his comment,

“Yeah well, tell that to the little motivation pool in my head. Maybe it’ll listen to you.” One of the best things, Derek decided, was how much sarcasm dripped from Stiles’ sentences. Of course not every sentence was sassy or sarcastic, but there were some that Derek just adored. 

\--------

One week later, and Derek couldn’t hold in any of his questions that had built up. He never wanted to pry, as they were strangers but Derek felt safe to say that they were friends at this point, and a question came spilling out.

“Have you sent any of the letters?” 

Stiles’ pen stilled on the paper, and Derek couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Stiles cleared his throat, gently set the pen down against the table and took a sip of coffee. Derek could see a slight shake of the hand.

“No,” he answered, “I don’t have the guts.” 

“Are they all the same?”

A gentle laughter shook Stiles’ body, “You sure have damn good patience Derek. If I was in your spot, I would’ve asked something about my damn letters within 30 minutes of meeting you.” Derek snorted,

“Yea well, I hav -” Derek stopped short and took a breath before continuing, “Had sisters who would’ve sooner strung me up if I asked questions so I learned some patience.” Derek could tell Stiles had caught his slip up, but he just let it slide. _You have better patience than you think_ Derek thought.

“Well I was an only child with an absent father and dead mother, so I have no filter.” Derek’s stomach dropped at the absence of lightness in Stiles voice with such a cold joke. 

“Opposites attract I guess.” 

Stiles lightly chuckled, “Opposites attract.”

“Can I ask who they are supposed to go to?” Derek asked, only feeling a little guilty at asking another question. 

“You just did.” Stiles teased, “But to humor you, they are supposed to go to my dad. My therapist swears up and down if I send him a letter, ‘The bridge can begin to heal’” he mimicked in a higher voice, “But I always screw up the wording and it is never right so I crumple it up and try again.” 

Derek let the words soak in, contemplating how to respond. “Can I give you some advice? You can tell me to shove it up my ass, but-”

“I’d welcome some advice,” Stiles interrupted. 

Derek took a slow breath, his brain was a mess. He hasn’t talked about his family in years, and he could tell the second he opened his mouth all of it would come spilling out to an unsuspecting soul, who deals with his shit in a much better way than Derek ever has. He grabbed his coffee, pushed himself to a standing and sat in the chair across from Stiles. 

Stiles broke the silence, “Woah, this is going to be actual serious advice isn’t it.” The corners of Derek’s mouth lifted into a half smile, 

“Might as well right?” 

Stiles sat in silence as if giving time for Derek to gather his words, and he was thankful for it. “I lost my family when I was 16. House fire, I was out with someone and when I came back, the house was in a blaze. I tried to get in to save anyone, but someone pulled me back. And I watched it burn to the ground with my family inside. The investigators never figured out what happened, later I figured out someone paid them off but -” Derek sucked in a low breath, “I couldn’t do anything about it.” 

“I wish I could go back in time, and help them, maybe be there to get someone out, but I can’t.” Derek paused, his eyes focused solely on the coffee swirling in his cup. He couldn’t bear to lift his eyes, “I would kill to be estranged from my family. That way I could fix it, or at least know they’re okay. I can’t say I have any idea what happened with your dad, and I can’t tell you what to do. But if I was in your spot, I would just send any letter. Hell, send all of them. Show how much time and struggle you put into this. Maybe it would get through to him.” 

The silence was agony for Derek. He dragged his eyes up from the coffee, and looked into Stiles’ eyes. They were shiny with unshed tears, and they were the most beautiful Derek had ever seen. 

“My mom died when I was very young. And my dad, well he didn't deal well. Worked all the time, drank too much. I basically raised myself with the help of my best friend and his mom. He sent me this -” Stiles pulled out a letter from his bag. It was worn, and Derek could tell Stiles had spent hours reading it over and over, “About two months ago. Apologizing, saying he wishes he could go back and change time and get help sooner and maybe raise me like a dad is supposed to,” his words were bitter with anger and Derek’s heart clenched with grief for him.

“But I just can’t - maybe don’t want to forget or forgive.” Derek lifted a hand and gently rested it on top of the tightly clenched fists resting on the table in front of him. 

“Tell him that.” Derek said softly, “You don’t have to forgive him, or make amends. Family isn’t a magical thing that always has to be perfect. Just tell him how angry you are, and how much it hurt and that you won't ever be able to truly forgive him. He at least deserves to hear that.

“Maybe.” 

Derek gently squeezed the hand he held, and pulled back. They sat in silence until the shop closed down.

\---------

Derek sat at the same coffee table, and waited for Stiles to show up. He was already late compared to when he usually showed up, and Derek couldn’t help but think Stiles was furious for the advice. Or - he didn’t even know what else. Derek worked slowly on the design in front of him, and it was nearing the end of the day before a jangle of the door and a familiar jacket caught his attention.

Stiles rushed through the tables, and sat directly across from Derek and slammed a white envelope onto the table. 

“I finished it,” he said proudly. Derek gently picked up the envelope - it hadn’t yet been sealed. Derek lifted his eyebrows, and tugged at the opening. Stiles chuckled, “Yes you can open it, but don’t go reading all of it.” 

Derek opened the envelope and slid the letter out. As he unfolded the paper, a small white dried flower fell to the table. Derek looked up at Stiles in confusion. Stiles blushed and looked down in embarrassment, “When writing the letter in the way you suggested, it was actually very cathartic so I needed to find a way to show him that I was ready to be open for healing without wanting to say it so I looked a flower that represents forgiveness, and a white tulip does just that. So I bought one and dried it and stuck it in the letter.”

“That’s one way to do it.” 

Stiles grinned and shrugged. He took the letter and envelope back, fiddling with the paper in his hands. He gently laid the flower to rest between the folds and slid the letter back in. 

“Do you think you’ll send it this time?” Derek asked. Stiles shrugged, 

“Most likely, I honestly just don’t have the guts to send it yet.”

“I could go with you to send it.” The words were whispered, and Derek could tell Stiles barely heard it, as the man across from his squinted in confusion. 

“What did you say?” 

Derek wasn’t quite sure if he could say those words again. It felt too intimate to offer, and he cleared his throat once before speaking a little louder. _I’ve never felt this timid before_ Derek thought, “Um, I said I could go with you when you send it. Moral support.” 

Stiles’ eyes were soft with emotion, and let go of the envelope with one hand and set it upon Derek’s. Yesterday, he was too caught up with the moment, but Derek almost crumpled under the soft, lanky hands that grasped his. 

“I would love that.”


End file.
